


Something Borrowed

by badwolfbadwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Gags, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Object Penetration, Riding Crops, Story of O AU, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/pseuds/badwolfbadwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets led by Derek into a den of men, blindfolded and fucked by all, and doesn’t know if Derek participated or just watched.  Based off The Story of O.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [eeyore9990](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com) for holding my hand through this!
> 
> Mind the warnings!

Derek is even more quiet than usual, shifting the car into gear silently and making each turn with the ease of familiarity even though the streets around them grow less and less familiar to Stiles.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks once, but Derek just looks ahead, eyes unreadable behind his aviator sunglasses.  Stiles has learned to let him be when he’s in one of his moods and sits back, drumming along the dash with both hands until Derek turns to give him a pointed look.

They pull up next to an antique looking row house, well-kept with a large wooden porch stretching across the front facade.  Derek pulls up to the curb, turning off the car and twisting sideways to look at Stiles.  

“I love you,” he says, tugging Stiles into a soft kiss, the tip of his tongue just teasing along the bow of Stiles’ lip and slipping in.  Derek says nothing more, no explanation given as he takes Stiles’ hand and leads him up the gravel walkway and straight away through the door without knocking.

The light of the afternoon streams through the windows, illuminating little specks of dust that float through the air in that old building type of way.  Stiles notes that the walls are painted a deep burgundy color, the wood stained dark, rich rugs covering the floors as they step inside.

“Come here, Stiles,” Derek says, hugging Stiles close again and bringing their lips together briefly.  Then he turns and pushes Stiles ahead of him, down the narrow hallway and into an interior room that is decorated as richly as the main foyer.  It’s much darker, though, with large velvet curtains hanging over the windows and blocking out the daylight.  

There is a large couch at the center of the room, flanked by two armchairs and an ottoman, all occupied by men Stiles has never seen before.  Most are smoking, some holding brandy snifters or other glasses, barely acknowledging their presence.  One glances up at Derek before throwing an appraising look in Stiles direction.  He seems a little older than Derek, dark hair spiked up artfully, a goatee filled out by rough stubble that makes him look roguishly attractive in the dim light.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Derek says, hot in Stiles’ ear.  His body is warm behind Stiles, but not touching.

“Yes,” Stiles answers, and he does, though his heart leaps in his throat and he frowns in confusion.  He closes his eyes as Derek places a blindfold over them, the texture silky smooth over the backs of his eyelids.  He feels himself breathe in and out deeper, listening to the sounds of the idle chatter of the men in front of them, smelling the scent of dust and sulfur and Derek’s soap.  He lets Derek part his lips with his fingers, slip in a gag between his teeth, feels it pulled taut behind his head as his mouth stretches around the small ball.  

Stiles feels the beginnings of panic but he breathes in deep through his nose, flares his nostrils, grounds his feet.  He loves Derek.  He trusts Derek.  Derek’s fingers are familiar at his neck, pulling his shirt-collar open, unbuttoning each button slowly.  He’s still behind him, Stiles can feel him there, his shirt hanging open until Derek pushes at the shoulders and it slips to the ground.  

Stiles feels his nipples tighten, the men still talking, but the knowledge that they are _there_ , that they are watching Derek do this to him, just right in the middle of this room he’s never been in…  That thought is enough to have him stiff in his pants, nipples peaked tightly, face growing flush.  He tongues at the gag, letting out an experimental little whine that can’t quite escape past the rubber, and Derek chooses that moment to grasp Stiles by the wrists and pull them together behind his back.

Stiles lets him, his bound hands warm on the small of his back.  They’ve done a little of this before, just a blindfold and a bit of bondage, really.  But never in front of an audience.  Never with anyone else.  Derek pulls down Stiles’ pants quickly, letting them pool around his feet and helping Stiles step out of them one leg at a time.  Stiles feels the air cool on his cock, feels it bounce up between his legs, feels it swell with blood as he stands there naked and bound, blindfolded and gagged in a roomful of strangers.

Then Stiles feels nothing as Derek steps away, his breath catching in his throat at the sudden vulnerability, his toes digging into the plush rug beneath his feet.  He can’t remember anymore if it was burgundy or brown, and were there four men there or six?  Derek’s hands are warm on his shoulders and he’s guiding Stiles forward until his knees bump against the ottoman.  It’s scratchy on his legs, the fire warmer now, the heat and smell of ash wafting over, the sound of glasses and murmurs louder.  

Derek slides a slip of leather around his neck and Stiles feels it tighten, the metal sound of a buckle at the back of his neck clacking loudly in his ears.  He tugs on it experimentally, slips in a finger between his neck and the leather to be sure the fit is correct, and then pushes down gently on Stiles’ shoulders.  Stiles sinks to the ground, pushed forward until his chest is flat on the ottoman, dick trapped between his stomach and the fabric, bound hands resting on his slightly arched back.  He turns his head sideways to lay his cheek flat and shifts his jaw, blood throbbing warmly through his body.

“I love you,” Derek says again, kissing Stiles on the temple and giving him a gentle caress over the curve of his bottom before leaving him there, bound and naked, like a gift-wrapped present.

There’s more chatter and Stiles waits there, counting his breaths, his limbs relaxing into the bindings.

“Lovely,” Stiles hears someone say to Derek, though Derek doesn’t reply.  There are sounds of the men talking, Derek among them, and then a rustling of cloth as someone approaches him.  And it’s not Derek, because Stiles can hear Derek across the room.

Two hands part Stiles’ cheeks and he feels confusion and fear overwhelm him.  His body fidgets, deciding whether to struggle, though he knows he’s already bound so tightly he could never get away.  Feet kick his legs apart further and then a finger pushes in with no warning, Stiles clenching around it, trying to keep it out but unable to.  The finger is slick, thin, and soon another joins it and they pull him apart.

Stiles burns with embarrassment, trying to shut his legs but held open by the strong stance of the man behind him.  The man kneels and Stiles hears a lowering of a zipper just barely above the chatter, and then the head of a wet dick is pushed against him and easing in as the man above him grunts.  Stiles can feel his body grow tight as a bow, instinctually trying to keep the man out though it hurts to do so.  He’s rewarded with a hard slap to his ass which jolts Stiles enough to make him loosen his clench, and the man takes the split second to shove in until he’s seated all the way, balls slapping against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles moans out at the burn, at being stretched with hardly any prep, at the indignity of it as the man pulls back on his bound wrists to draw his body into a trembling line.  His dick is thick, thicker than Derek’s though a little shorter, and he uses his grip on Stiles’ wrists to rock him against him.  He works into Stiles with little motions in and out before the way is eased up slightly, Stiles’ muscles too exhausted to keep up the squeeze, the man thrusting much more easily now.

“There’s a good little bitch,” the man croons above him, petting along Stiles’ rump like he is an animal, still holding onto his wrists with the other.  And _that_ makes Stiles’ face flush red hot, and he is grateful for the blindfold, for the gag, that he doesn’t have to see the others watching.  Or not watching, rather, as the conversation continues along, Stiles catching the light laughter of Derek who is not even paying attention.

The man behind him begins to fuck in faster, grasping Stiles’ sharp hips with both hands and using his body as leverage to hammer into him.  It’s brutal, the man nailing his prostate like a fucking pro with each pound, and Stiles feels his body rubbed into the fabric of the ottoman until his face and stomach and dick are raw.

It feels awful and confusing as Stiles’ cock leaks beneath him, the friction both wonderful and terrible on his aching cock.  The fingers dig into his skin, blunt nails scratching and one hand slipping up to press Stiles down by the shoulders so he stops sliding over the fabric.  The man holds him down and fucks into him, finally grunting out an orgasm.  Stiles feels it fill him up hotly, the sticky splash of it making him moan into the gag, his limbs creaking with the rough movements.

When the man is finished he pulls out and lets the come slide onto Stiles’ legs before giving him another firm slap on the ass and just leaving him there.

Stiles feels like he is in a daze, lashes wet behind the blindfold, cock shamefully hard between his legs, untouched.  He waits as long as he can but then humps down a little onto the fabric, trying to get some stimulation going, utterly confused about how he should be feeling.

A laugh behind him stops his movements, and a moment later he is spread again and a second cock is driving into him.  It makes Stiles cry out, eyes watering as the cock drags him back and forth over the ottoman at a rough pace.  This time sharp claws scratch at his skin, the blindfold making everything ten times worse.  Then he is drawn up onto his knees, the cock longer than the last, making Stiles feel like he is full up to his ribs.  He can feel the come dribbling down his legs as it is worked both inward more and slides downward at the same time.

Strong hands make him bounce on the cock, his own hands pressed between his back and a hairy belly, the muscles clenching and quivering against Stiles’ curled fingers.  Wet lips press into his neck, teeth sharp as a warning before sinking down to work their way into Stiles’ muscle.  He tilts his head to the side automatically, some type of hindbrain instinct kicking in, his muscles slackening.  The man is strong, lifting Stiles like he’s nothing, and he bounces along, his cock slapping against his own stomach wetly, the noises obscene in his ears.  

And still the men talk, the fire licks and cracks, smoke curls through the air, as Stiles gets fucked like a toy on the rug.  The man grunts and stiffens, and Stiles feels the rush of come again, slicking his insides and sliding down with gravity.  He’s pushed back on his stomach on the ottoman, moaning when his dick is pressed tight again, thighs sticky and trembling.  

The gag is removed and Stiles has a moment of relief to stretch his jaw before being pulled forward roughly over the edge of the ottoman.  His teeth are pried apart, a cock fed past his lips, and Stiles has to huff in breaths through his nose as he’s filled.  New hands slide around his backside, pushing him open and closed, drawing his hips up and slapping at his cock and balls.  Stiles moans around the cock being steadily pushed down his throat, unable to distinguish the pain from the pleasure anymore.

The man in front of him grips Stiles’ ears tightly, stiffening up and spurting out, rich and thick down the back of Stiles’ tongue.  Stiles chokes on it, struggles against the bonds, nostrils flaring as he drags in quick breaths that smell of come and sweat.  When the cock pulls out Stiles sobs, the feeling of being bereft, empty, aching suddenly overwhelming him.  He whines pitifully, rubbing himself off on the thick fabric, desperate need to be filled, to get off, to do _something_ thundering through his blood as he humps his hips down.  They let him wriggle and thrust until he tires himself out, the friction not enough to get him anything but painfully frustrated, his cries dying down to whimpers and then to nothing as he listens to the quiet sounds of the men and the fire.

Eventually the conversation lulls, and someone steps between Stiles’ spread legs and hauls him upward.  The come seeps out as he stands, a thick mess on his burning thighs, and he quivers with the effort of standing up.  His lips feel swollen from being well-used, throat dry from rasping moans, lashes wet behind the blindfold.

“You did so well, Stiles,” a voice whispers in his ear.  Derek.  Stiles swells with the praise, his aching body slumping against his lover.  He wants to be good for Derek, always so good.  He still wants to be.

Strong hands propel him forward and he makes unsteady steps on the plush rug.  They stop, the bonds around his wrist loosened, only to be drawn above his head as he’s pushed up against a metal pole.

Derek binds his wrists high on the pole while someone else secures his ankles and waist, and then he’s one long line pressed against the metal.  He sags into the bonds, cock achingly hard, jutting out heavily from his body.

The clasp of his blindfold is undone and Stiles blinks with the sudden influx of light as his eyes adjust.  There’s the fire, the men lounging on the formal couch and armchairs.  And the ottoman, where Derek watched while the other men took their turn.  Or had Derek been one of them?  Stiles doesn’t know and he burns with that thought, closing his eyes in shame even as his cock leaks out pre-come and it drips thickly off the tip.  

“The crop today, Peter,” Derek says casually to the man next to him, and Stiles tightens up everywhere with surprise.  “Don’t gag him.  I want to hear him crying.”

The man smiles like a predator, moving to a side table to collect the crop and flexing it lightly in his hand as he approaches.

“Such lovely taste, Nephew,” Peter drawls, and Stiles feels anticipation gnaw at his chest.  He’s never been whipped, never seen this man before, and the bulge of his bicep is almost panic-inducing.  He feels so keyed up that he nearly sobs with it, eyes gone wide and doe-like as he watches the swish of leather through the air.

The first strike is light, just a tease and it makes Stiles’ cock squeeze, makes him want to spread his legs again, makes him flush red with humiliation.

“All this pale skin,” Peter coos, running the tongue of the crop along the contours of Stiles’ body.  “It will look so good bearing our marks.”  He brings the crop down swiftly this time, the sting almost unbearable, and Stiles cries out from the shock.  He can feel the blood welling up to the surface, can only imagine the red welt rising in stark contrast to his normally fair coloring.

Peter is thorough, methodical, and Stiles strains against the bonds, pushed into the pole as he lifts on his toes with each stroke.  It stings, G _od_ does it sting, the pain lancing through him, racking sobs drawn out at each blow.  As Peter begins to focus on the meat of his ass, Stiles twists sideways, the ropes just loose enough to let him tilt his hips.  The barrage of blows is inescapable, though, and the movement seems to incite even harsher licks.

When Stiles has worked his way almost sideways Peter tsks behind him and stops, grabbing Stiles by the hips and squaring him so he’s flush against the pole once more.  “Can’t get away from me, little slut,” he purrs, hands kneading into the searing hot skin, making tears spring up anew.  “How can I resist this delectable little ass when you’re giving me such a show?”

The butt of the handle is pressed against him, nudging inward, and fat, salty tears slide down Stiles’ cheeks.

“Are you open enough for my cock from all those others before?” Peter whispers as he pushes in the handle and Stiles just swallows it up.  “Or do we need to train you, keep you full and open until it just slides in?”  Peter laughs as the rest of the handle slips in easily, Stiles so wet from come and muscles overtired from earlier that he’s got no resistance left.

The handle is removed and replaced by the swift push of Peter’s dick.  Stiles moans as it drives inward, the welts torturous as Peter rubs up against his back and thighs almost fully clothed.  

“Good little bitch,” Peter croons as he begins thrusting mercilessly and Stiles’ eyes fly open, meeting Derek’s hungry gaze, the rest of the men still chatting away.  Stiles feels his cock twitching, heat pooling in his belly and he tries to clamp down on it, knowing that if he comes without permission it will be so much worse.

“Beg for it,” Peter whispers, reaching down to grasp Stiles’ cock with a firm grip and making him surge forward.

“Please,” he wails, already feeling a tightening as his balls draw upward.  “Please _please_ let me come.”  He squeezes his eyes, trying desperately to hold on, to wait for the words, his body clenched so tightly that the cock driving inside of him is so overwhelming he starts to just cry.

Peter jerks him once, twice, and then grunts out “Do it, slut,” and Stiles tumbles into his orgasm with relief, sobbing against his arm as his body heaves with it, Peter still fucking him hard through the spasms.  Stiles catches Derek’s eye, looking calm and unaffected as Stiles rocks against the pole and Peter claws at him.  Then Peter’s grabbing Stiles’ hips and stuttering against him, his come joining the rest that’s shoved up inside Stiles and drying on his thighs.

Stiles feels like his limbs are made of concrete and the only thing that’s holding him up is the ropes and Peter’s dick.  Peter licks at his claws and gives Stiles’ ass a squeeze, bringing back a wash of pain as the welts stretch and blaze across his sensitive skin.

Derek collects him from the pole, pulls Stiles into a sweet kiss and away from the others.  Stiles cries his way through the shaking aftermath, letting Derek pick him up in both arms and hold him to his chest tightly.  They make their way up the stairs and to a softly lit bedroom, Derek setting Stiles down gently on his side and petting over his skin, his hair, his stomach.  Stiles feels so heavy, sleep settling down over him like a sheet as he fights to keep his eyes open.

“Derek,” he says softly, the first time he’s talked in a while.  His voice sounds rough, thick, tired.

Derek answers by tugging Stiles close for a lingering kiss then laying him down face first on the bed so the welts won’t rub into the sheets.  Stiles hears Derek moving above him, nearly too tired to register the zip of a fly and what it means until Derek is grunting above him.  

“So good.  You did so good, baby,” Derek praises and Stiles can feel the bed wobbling beneath Derek’s jerking body.  “Just for me.  Mine.  My Stiles.”

Derek’s come stripes along Stiles’ back, painting a criss-cross over the mess of red and making Stiles stiffen up with the sting.  He tenses further when Derek reaches down to smear the fluid across the base of Stiles’ spine, up along the bony ridges, painting him with it.  It hurts but the pain is dull now and he doesn't mind, liking Derek's reverent touches and panting breaths and the fact that _he_ did that to Derek.

Derek falls next to Stiles like he’s the exhausted one, pulling him in for a kiss and slipping a ring onto Stiles’ right ring finger.  It’s cool against him, the metal smooth and heavy, and Stiles examines it for a minute in as it glints in the light.  It bears the triskele symbol, the Hale’s symbol, three curled lines etched in silver.  The meaning is obvious even to Stiles' sleepy brain, just the thought of wearing it everywhere making him warm all over and his welts throb.

“You’re mine,” Derek whispers, tucking Stiles’ head beneath his chin and wrapping his arms around the shuddering boy.

“Yours,” Stiles echoes as he curls into his lover and breathes in deep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [tumblr](http://badwolfbadwolff.tumblr.com)!


End file.
